


V is for Victoria

by KyberHearts



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: Inspired by a startling lack of US women's history and influence in the fandom, Post-The Last American Vampire (2015), Queer Characters, US History, Vampires, alternates between past and present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/KyberHearts
Summary: Femme fatale Victoria Sly has been terrorizing the 1900s United States of America, more than a century after Abraham Lincoln's mortal death. For Henry Sturges, it seems as if she has been allowed to roam and kill freely outside of rules maintaining the secret existence of vampires.It seems that at every time they meet, Henry has a chance to finally end her murder spree but hesitates, obsessed with the idea that she could change for the better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *throws this fic on a stack of wips*

  **FACTS**

1\. The vampire population in the United States of America rapidly faded upon the arrival of the twenty-first century.

2\. The Union, an assembly of vampires stationed in New York City, turned a blind eye to the actions of a vampire known as Victoria Sly who drank her way through most of the twentieth century.

3\. Henry Sturges, born 1563, died 1587, remains as one of the oldest known vampires in the United States of America.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  **INTRODUCTION**

“Most people look at them, these [photographs of] men with their grand mustaches and decorative canes, of women with their oversize hats and bustles, with a sort of passing fascination. In books, on scenes, in museums. They look at them as if they’re looking at a fiction. Something elaborately staged to give their present day some context.”

ㅡ _Henry Sturges_

The worn, leather journals that changed my life were returned to Henry as per requested.

Memories of staying behind the dime store counter, engrossed in the writing, scribbling and planning the requested manuscript, realizing that the world could no longer be the same, sane place I had tolerated for the past thirty-something years: they were unforgettable.

Most of the research had been passive, consisting of visits to the Internet and e-mailing history professors without ever mentioning “Abraham Lincoln” and “vampires” in the same breath. The nightmares arrived after Henry’s transformation, and then returned with a vengeance after I had interviewed tame, but still violent vampires. He volunteered the locations and then means of communication with ten vampires, none of them thrilled with the idea of a curious human showing up on their doorstep or in their inbox.

One or two had gnashed fangs in my face; the fear was muted. Betaed by Henry Sturges. Others were polite and tight-lipped. I talked with them in order to construct the memoir of the nation’s savior turned president. Their names, printed neatly on gleaming white paper, were sometimes simple, sometimes extravagant. Borrowed from history or tradition, unless they owned the name and reputation.

And then there was one vampire who I could not locate, whose address sent me to the US-Canada border and an orphanage founded decades earlier. The headmaster of the institution, old, balding, had no idea who the vampire was, much less likely the existence of the supernatural. Then was the name an alias, a nom de plume, just as I write Henry Sturges and think of the name he used when we first met?

The name, Henry had told me during one of our talks for his own memoir, was real. But it was impossible to locate the vampire. The address he had provided me was supposed to lead to an apartment, not an orphanage. “Perhaps she works there?” I ventured, eyeing the tape recorder on the coffee table between us, knowing that this time was supposed to be for Henry. But who was this vampire? Why was she important to Lincoln’s and America’s legacy?

“She’s dead,” he said bluntly.

“Oh.”

“She was alive when I gave you the list. But I killed her.” Henry shrugged, tapping his thumbs together. “I forgot to tell you.”

It was fine, I reassured him. But why did he murder her? This only piqued my interest. I wanted to press him, to ask about what did this vampire do to warrant a death sentence. Then Henry returned to telling me about the 1960s and his meeting with JFK, and thinking that she must not be that important to his memoir, I desisted.

 

ㅡㅡㅡ

In a haze of early morning in November, the year after the second memoir was published, I stared into the dark roast of my coffee and realized that I finally had some money in my wallet. The thought was quiet, subtle. I’d been compensated in book sales and by Henry after publishing the first book, and then the second. I didn’t have to live in the basement of this fading dime store. I could take a vacation or two to Europe, maybe Asia.

But I dreamt of walking New York City streets through a vampire’s eyes. To search for the ruins and the revival of the Union, to stand where Henry first killed in the city, to visit the grave of the once-oldest vampire.

The faint chime of the store’s introductory doorbell drew me out of the dream, only slightly. I looked up wistfully and nodded politely at a tall, lean character in their late twenties. He wasn’t a resident here; maybe a tourist hoping to pick up souvenirs and memories. I kept an eye on him, as I did with all unfamiliar customers. He picked up a leatherbound used book that I recognized as a collection of Shakespeare plays by its large red ink stain on the side.

The young man made his way to the counter, thumbing through the pages, slowly chewing his lip. I shuffled my shoulders and prepared some small talk. Perhaps he would also consider buying some more books and add to the annual income. And then I saw his eyes and I suddenly recalled speaking with him in the comforts of a public coffee shop, somewhere my potential murder could be witnessed.

“You remember,” the vampire noted, and smiled. It was difficult to forget his eyes, flecked with gold and hazel, as they had filtered through every piece of my thoughts, searching for malicious intents. He was one of the gentler vampires. “I read your books. Very interesting. Very accurate.”

I couldn’t say anything.

The vampire held up the book. “How much?” Upon realizing that I wouldn’t be very good at conversation, he sighed. “I apologize for my unexpected presence. But I felt that this would be important.” He procured two photographs from his jacket and with neat, manicured fingernails, slid them across the counter.

I picked up the top photo, a vintage relic from the 1900s. And there it was, clear as day, Henry Sturges relaxing in the comfort of a stout man with a shit-eating grin, and staring across the restaurant Delmonico’s at a fine woman who met his sharp, intense gaze. The photo was taken without either party’s knowledge. “Where did you get this?” I finally asked.

“Is that important?” The vampire chuckled. “All you need to know is that this is Henry Sturgesー” and he pointed at the womanー “and this is Victoria.”

The name was common; it bore no familiarity to me.

I looked at the second photograph. Freshly printed, unlike the former's creased and wrinkled state. Victoria grinned and posed in vibrant color print. She dressed in modern fashion and held a newspaper with yesterday’s date. She was a vampire.

“Who isー?”

“You can ask Henry,” the vampire interrupted. He fished around for twenties in his wallet and handed them to me. And then he was out the door.

As if summoned, Henry appeared no less than an hour later and found me still staring at the old photograph. It held much more interest for me than the newer one. From the image, I hazarded a guess that the other man in the photograph was William Duell, a vampire who served as Henry’s bodyguard during the eve of the 1900s. Henry stopped at the counter and plucked the photo from my hands. He’d been polite enough to not enter my thoughts. That being said when his eyes landed on the artifact, his blank expression instantly melted into grim amusement.

“There wasー”

“A vampire in here, yes.” He flicked his eyes at me. “But there’s another photograph.” Wordlessly, I handed it to him. The change on his face was dramatic and drastic. Pure shockー something that I’d never seen on Henry’s face.

“Whoー?”

“It’s her.” Henry’s hands tightened on the photo, dangerously close to destroying it. “But she’s dead. I _killed_ her.”

Then I remembered the conversation from months ago. “Henryー”

I blinked, and he was already out of the door with the new photograph in hand.

Nighttime descended, and so did the snow. It blanketed and muted Rhinebeck, driving its residents inside and tourists off the roads. I sat behind the counter, poring over another abandoned writing journal, and headlights flooded the store. I squinted past the glare and wondered who the hell would be driving in the middle of a snowstorm.

And of course, it was Henry who stepped out of the driver’s seat and briskly entered the store. His carefully styled hair had melting snowflakes. “I’m driving to the border. Are you coming with me?”

I scrambled to my feet. “To findー”

“Victoria.” The name was rusty on his lips. Henry took a deep breath. “Yes. I thought you might be interested.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Lemmeー”

“Please hurry.”

I seized everything I could possibly need in the next twenty-four hours. Phone, keys, wallet, jacket. I grabbed the journal on a whim. Then after locking the store, I hurried to the passenger seat. Henry was already seated, wearing only a windbreaker. “You’re notー”

“No.” He offered me the slightest glance. I was shivering, shaking, and nose already running from the cold, opposite to his pale, unchanging state. “Feel free to turn on the heat.” As I fiddled with the dash, he revved the engine and headed to the interstate. There were hardly any other cars in the blizzard, a large truck appearing and disappearing into the darkness every now and then.

When I could feel my cheeks again, I relaxed in the seat, and Henry decided to start the conversation. “I’m sure you have many questions. Where do you want to begin?”

I’d been mulling this over. “The photograph.”

Henry nodded. “It’s real. It was definitely yesterday’s New York Times. From the looks of it, there was a part of a building behind her. The orphanage.”

“You believe she’s still there?”

“Yes.” Henry tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes remained forward. “I don’t think she ever left.”

“But you said thatー”

“I was so sure that she was dead. But I’ve been wrong before. Crowley. Virginia.” A pause. “Abraham. A list of my mistakes.”

“Why did you never talk about her?” I pressed. All this buried curiosity was alive once more, like a breath on hot embers.

It was a long time before Henry could answer. I was almost certain that the atmosphere had crystallized, become taut, but only because he was forcing himself to ask himself that question. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he finally said, “I’d spent enough of my life thinking about her. I didn’t think that she deserved a place in my history.”

“But you _did_ have history with her.” A bold assumption.

The corner of his lips pulled in a smile. “Not in the way that you’d imagine.”

I looked at him. “Tell me.”


End file.
